Thug King

The air in the main courtyard was a volatile cocktail of greed, fear, and bloodlust. Hundreds of students formed a loose, churning circle, leaving the center empty. It wasn't a dueling ring; it was a kill box. Every exit was blocked. Every eye was locked on the main entrance to the school building.

At the top of the entrance steps, two figures appeared.

The first was Kenji Tanaka, looking as non-threatening as ever, his school bag slung over one shoulder. The second was "The Bear" Maruyama, a human mountain radiating an aura of grim, protective fury.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the mob.

"He actually came!"

"Look at Maruyama! He's really siding with the new guy!"

"Who cares? He's just one man. We're hundreds!"

From a third-floor window overlooking the courtyard, Yamata Kazuya watched, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a cruel smirk on his face. This was his masterpiece of terror. He would watch this "Thug King" be drowned by the very students he was supposed to rule.

"Let the games begin," Yamata whispered, exhaling a stream of smoke.

At the bottom of the steps, "Iron Fist" Honda, captain of the Boxing Club, stepped forward. He was flanked by twenty of his best fighters, all cracking their knuckles, their eyes burning with vengeful fire.

"Tanaka Kenji!" Honda roared, his voice booming across the courtyard. "Your luck runs out today! Yamata's bounty is mine!"

Honda and his boxers charged, a wave of synchronized muscle and aggression.

Maruyama moved to step in front of Kenji, ready to be the shield he promised to be.

"Stay back, Maruyama-senpai," Kenji's voice was calm, but it held an undeniable authority. "This is my problem."

Maruyama froze, torn but obedient. He stepped aside, his massive fists clenched in frustration.

Kenji walked down the steps to meet the charge. He dropped his school bag at his feet. For the first time, he stretched his neck from side to side, producing two soft cracks. It was the only sign of preparation he made.

Honda was the first to reach him, throwing a powerful, piston-like cross aimed directly at Kenji's face.

Kenji's response was a blur. He didn't dodge. He flowed into the attack. He swatted Honda's punch aside with an open palm, the redirection so smooth it looked like Honda had missed on his own. In the same motion, Kenji's other hand, formed into a spear-hand, jabbed forward.

It didn't hit Honda's chest or face. It struck the center of his clavicle.

CRACK!

The sound of the collarbone snapping was sickeningly loud. Honda's roar of aggression turned into a high-pitched scream of agony. His powerful body crumpled, his arm hanging uselessly.

Kenji had neutralized the leader in the first second.

The other nineteen boxers, their rage overriding their shock, swarmed him. They were a flurry of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts from all sides.

And Kenji began to move.

It wasn't a fight. It was a dance. A terrifying, brutal, and elegant dance of destruction. He never took a direct hit. He moved with an impossible, three-dimensional awareness, swaying, ducking, and weaving through the storm of fists. His body was a phantom.

His counters were precise and merciless.

An elbow shattered a nose.

A knife-hand chop to the side of a neck sent a boxer into temporary paralysis, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed.

A low, sweeping kick, delivered with the speed of a striking snake, took out the knees of two fighters at once, sending them to the ground screaming.

He grabbed a fist that was flying at him, and with a simple, horrifying twist, dislocated the boxer's shoulder with a wet pop.

He moved among them like a surgeon in a bloody operating theater, dismantling them piece by piece. He used their own momentum against them, causing them to crash into each other. Within ten seconds, all twenty members of the Boxing Club were on the ground, groaning, broken, or unconscious.

The entire courtyard was silent. The hundreds of students who had been baying for blood were now frozen in sheer, mind-numbing terror. They had just watched one boy dismantle one of the school's most powerful fighting forces as if he were taking out the trash.

From the shadows of a nearby building, Akari Ishikawa watched, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He's not even trying," she realized with a dawning horror. "His breathing is steady. His expression is bored. This is a warm-up for him."

Kenji stood in the center of the wreckage, not a single scratch on him. He looked up at the sea of terrified faces.

"Who is next?" His voice was not loud, but it carried across the dead-silent courtyard like a death sentence.

That was the breaking point. Greed was a powerful motivator, but primal fear was stronger.

A boy at the front of the mob dropped the pipe he was holding. It clattered on the pavement with a deafening noise. Then another weapon was dropped. Then another. A wave of terror washed over the would-be army. They began to back away, stumbling over each other to escape.

"COWARDS!" a voice roared. The captain of the Karate club, a fierce third-year, leaped forward, unwilling to let the opportunity go. "He is just one man! ATTACK!"

He led a new charge, this time with thirty members of the Karate and Judo clubs who hadn't fled.

But just as they were about to clash, a new sound ripped through the air. The sound of splintering wood.

The back gate of the courtyard exploded inwards, torn from its hinges.

Pouring through the opening was an army. An army clad in the red-and-black uniforms of Suzaku High. At their head, her fiery hair like a battle standard, was Rina Sato. In her hands was not a shinai. It was her real, gleaming katana, drawn from its scabbard.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY MAN!" she bellowed, her voice a raw, furious war cry.

Her fifty-strong army of Suzaku's most brutal delinquents crashed into the side of the Seiryu mob like a tidal wave, swinging pipes, bats, and fists. Chaos erupted. The ambush of Kenji Tanaka had just turned into a full-blown war between two schools.

Akari swore under her breath. "That idiot!"

Yamata, watching from his window, saw his perfect plan devolve into a chaotic brawl. His smirk vanished, replaced by a deep, murderous frown. "Sato… you interfering bitch."

In the center of it all, Kenji stood, watching as a war erupted around him. Maruyama was now by his side, roaring like a beast as he threw Suzaku and Seiryu students alike who got too close to his Senpai.

Kenji looked at the chaos. He saw Rina, a crimson demon with her flashing katana, cutting a swath through anyone who dared to stand in her way. He saw the Seiryu students, now fighting a battle on two fronts.

This had escalated beyond a simple problem. It was a complex, multi-variable catastrophe.

He sighed. It was time to end it.

He began to walk forward, directly into the heart of the swirling, violent melee. He didn't run. He walked.

A Suzaku thug, high on adrenaline, saw him and swung a steel pipe at his head. "Die, Seiryu scum!"

Kenji didn't even look at him. He raised a hand, caught the pipe mid-swing, his grip so absolute the man couldn't move it. Kenji wrenched the pipe from his hands, bent it into a U-shape with a single, effortless motion, and dropped it. He then tapped the thug on the forehead with two fingers. The thug's eyes went blank and he crumpled.

He continued walking.

A Seiryu karateka tried a flying kick. Kenji caught his ankle in one hand, spun him around like a top, and used him as a human flail to knock out three other fighters before gently depositing him on the ground.

He was a force of nature. He moved through the battle like a ghost, a touch here, a push there. Every person who attacked him, from Seiryu or Suzaku, was neutralized with minimal effort and maximum efficiency. He was not taking sides. He was shutting the entire war down.

Finally, he reached the epicenter. Rina Sato. She had just disarmed the Karate captain and had the flat of her blade against his throat.

"Tanaka-kun!" she said, her face flushed with the thrill of battle, a savage grin on her face. "Don't worry! I'll protect you!"

Kenji looked at her, then at the terrified Karate captain, then at the chaos surrounding them.

"This," he said, his voice holding, for the very first time, a hint of something other than calm—a trace of weariness, of genuine annoyance. "Is not helping."

He reached out and gently took the katana from her hand. She was so shocked by his casual, authoritative action that she let him. He held the legendary blade, tested its weight, and then, in front of everyone, he pointed it at the ground and drove it five inches deep into the asphalt with one hand, leaving it standing there, quivering like a monument.

He turned to face the entire, now-silent battlefield. Every single student, from Seiryu and Suzaku, was staring at him, their fights forgotten.

"This ends," Kenji Tanaka declared, his voice cutting through the silence. "Now."

His aura, which had been contained and placid, finally uncoiled. A pressure, cold, absolute, and immense, washed over the courtyard. It was the pressure of a true apex predator finally showing its teeth. It was the pressure of a King.

And in that moment, every single person in the courtyard, from the lowest thug to the proud Rina Sato, from the loyal Maruyama to the watching Akari Ishikawa, felt an instinctual, primal urge.

The urge to kneel.